


Save Me

by nicolesilver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Annoying Gabriel (Supernatural), Awesome Charlie, Castiel is Not Okay (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Homophobic John Winchester, Hunter!Cas, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Sex Worker Castiel (Supernatural), Sex Worker Dean Winchester, hunter!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicolesilver/pseuds/nicolesilver
Summary: Castiel is lost. He just started teaching at a college loaded with lore to help his hunter family pursue their obsession with killing things. The problem is -- after a terrible mistake, Cas isn't sure being a hunter is any different than being a monster.Abandoned again, Dean has to find a way to keep Sam at Souix Falls Community College aka Hunters U, in hopes that he won't leave for Stanford. Dean does what he has to do to cover tuition, like always, trying to hold his shattered family together with his bare hands.When Dean walks in to Cas' classroom just a bit too early, they find that they have a lot more in common than either was expecting.Co-stars abound: from a cast of humanized angels to Charlie Bradbury as her fine, sisterly self. F/F to come -- I promise.Tags to be added as the story grows.
Relationships: Angels & Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel & Anna Milton, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 9





	Save Me

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing belongs to me. 
> 
> Also this is my first work ever. So give me all the feedback, preferably with some compliments thrown in so I don't fall apart. Obviously I'm nervous af. But I'm actually kinda proud of this so...here we go...

" _save, save, save me, I can't face this life alone"_

  
[i]

  
Castiel pushes his fingers into his eyes, disappearing the empty classroom for a moment. 

The inevitable thought pops up: _What am I doing here?_

The inevitable stern voice responds: _It’s for the Family._ It’s almost impressive that his father, so thoroughly absent for so long, still manages to echo in his head. 

_Always for the Family,_ he responds darkly. 

But then he remembers the real reason he's here, the reason he's been evading — _We need a connect at Hunter U, it’s the biggest trove of lore in the country. Castiel, as your penance or whatever, go get a job at Souix Falls Community College._ He opens his eyes to try and ignore the rest of the memories.

His new students will be filling these chairs soon. He can already see how this first class will go. The students will lie about their interest in medieval folklore. He will pretend it’s just folklore. They will skim the syllabus, looking for how little they can do and still pass. He will act as though he cares about the quality of their work. They will sit and he will lecture. The farce will lag until a bell rings and he will be free. Or at least, able to turn his attention to why he actually works here.

His phone rings in the pocket of his trench coat, hanging haphazardly on the back of his chair.

“How long before class ends,” Uriel’s voice states, annoyed through the phone.

“And good morning to you too, Brother,” Cas sarcastically responds

“We need to get going.” _No shit — when did Uri call except to say just that._

“I will be done in 90 minutes. Then I will grab the spellbook from the library and be there.”

“You better be.”

“I am aware.” Cas’ voice gets low. He can almost feel Uri back down.

“Give me the phone” Anna’s voice pops up in the background. The muffled sounds of passing and pushing is followed by: “How are you feeling about your first day?”

“Like this is my happy place,” Cas says sardonically, glad to be talking to Anna.

“Well, how could it not be? Who doesn’t love dealing with a bunch of clueless civilians?” Her lightness makes him chuckle for the first time all day. “Just do the stupid, fake job and get back here so we can kill some stuff, ok?” Her voice weaves worry and enthusiasm so easily.

“Yes, sir” Cas responds, with a bit too much emphasis. He hopes it doesn’t sound forced. He hopes they still can’t see it. He hopes he still seems like someone who wants to be doing this, someone who loves doing this, someone like them. A hunter — who sees it all in black and white, good and bad. He pretends for her and he hopes she believes.

"And remember your machete.” She mothers.

“Duh — who wouldn’t bring a machete to a vamp fight?” He makes it sound light.

“Hell yes! Vamps here we come,” she joins in.

But he barely hears her answer. Because suddenly he looks up to sees a man with green eyes shining out of a beautiful face with short dirty blond hair and tan skin. He is tall, wearing a faded leather jacket that’s a bit too big for him and jeans that have stains Cas pretends not to recognize. He nearly drops the phone

[ii]

  
 _Where the fuck is this classroom_ , Dean thinks as he wanders the hallways. _What the fuck am I even doing here?_ His frustration rises. He barely attended elementary school, let alone high school. His GED was supposed to ensure he never had to go to a school again. But here he is, 21, and looking for some stupid, random freshman classroom at 10 fucking AM.

He stops. Breathes in. Then out. He’s here for a reason. Sammy wants to go to college. Sammy has always wanted to go to college. Sammy deserves to go to college. And if Dad will only let him go to _this_ college, then Dean will make it work.  
 _But jesus fuck it's early._ And he’s awake and stuck wandering a building he doesn’t want to be in. The anger rises even though he doesn’t want it to. Even though he knows it shouldn’t. But how can he hold it back? _I don't belong here. I belong on the road, in Baby, swinging a knife, shooting a gun, tracking a monster. I wasn't made for educating. I don’t know how to do this._ And, _alone in this hallway, I can admit that to myself, at least for a moment. Can’t I?_

 _No,_ his brain responds.

 _I’m here. And I’m going to deal._ The feelings will pass and Sammy will stay and that will be enough. 

He hears a deep male voice down the hall, where a classroom door is open enough for soft yellow light to spill onto the floor. A few halls back, he had finally figured out the system. Numbers are painted on the upper left part of the door jam, where they are nearly impossible to see. _God, fuck this place._ But at least now he knows that that room with the husky voice, intermittently chuckling gravely, is where he is supposed to go for a class on medieval folklore.

A class John chose, of course.

And of course, Sam pushed back. Picking the classes he wanted — law and philosophy, calculus and sociology. Nothing to do with monsters. They may be at Hunters U, as it is nicknamed. But Sammy put his foot down: _if you’re going to make me go to this stupid fucking community college instead of one of the best universities in the whole fucking country, at least let me take classes I actually want to take, you selfish fucker._ Dean can still feel how tense his own body got. How he immediately jumped in front of Sam with his arms out. Without a thought, he promised to take the hunter classes instead, so Sam could take the other ones. He would take them all. And so he took John’s fury too. The bruises still ached on his ribs, his stomach, his hip.

 _Well, then you better figure out how to pay for two college educations,_ John said coldly before he walked out with no goodbye. He hadn’t been back since. 

But Dean is still here. Signed up for the classes John wanted: on lore, on survival skill, on mechanics, on weaponry. He is paying for it the way he always does when John isn’t around. But, as always, Sam doesn’t know, so it’s ok. He hears his heart just for a moment -- _it’s for Sammy, for Sammy, for Sammy._

As his thoughts swirl, he follows the deep voice on the phone without focusing on the words, glad to finally know where he’s going. And suddenly, he is in the doorway facing a lean, serious man in a white button down and black slacks. He is wearing a blue tie and sports astonishingly bright blue eyes. Unintentionally, Dean finds himself listening to the words that roll out into the empty classroom. 

“Duh — who wouldn’t bring a machete to a vamp fight?”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. And the blue eyes of the teacher lock on him, the phone almost tumbling to the floor.

[iii]

“Well, you ain’t wrong.” The man, boy, student in the doorway says, with a self assured but masked smile. “No point showing up for vamps without a way to guillotine the bitches.”

Cas’ eyes widen. "Anna, I’ll see you later.” The words rush out. Cas throws all his attention into ending the call, staring at his screen, finding the red button. He is trying and failing to believe like this human didn’t just hear everything he said. Didn’t just respond flippantly. Didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. But he can’t. His eyes shoot back up. And this confusing man, cockiness etched into every inch of his body, leans against the door frame, holding Cas’ gaze with a soul-deep intensity.  
  
Cas gulps like a fish, trying to figure out what to say. The other man gets there first.  
  
“Dean Winchester,” he says, eyes glinting. “Reporting for my first day at Hunters U.” The nickname kick starts Cas’ brain. Of course. A hunter. That makes sense. It’s not like his family is the only one to know about his place, about the library, the books, the journals. He’s just never…met one before: a student or teacher who actually admitted what this place is.   
  
“Castiel, Castiel Novak” he forces out. Regaining his calm with each word. “Professor of lore” He uses the real name, the family business name, gauging Dean’s reaction to the words.   
  
“Well, at least one of my classes isn’t a total waste of time” Dean laughs. Looking genuinely relieved. His face momentarily softens when he smiles. And Cas smiles back. Feeling the relief of not hiding soak him through to his bones.

“So vamps - huh?” Dean asks. Not changing the topic exactly, more opening a door, inviting Cas to walk through if he wants. 

Cas feels his cheeks go red as his head spins. He's never talked about a hunt with someone who wasn’t in his family before. “Vamps, yup.”

“Cool, they’re one of my favorites. Head chopping is fun.” Dean’s cheeky grin hides something but Cas isn’t sure what.

“Yea, maybe.” Can finds himself muttering, as he turns back to his desk. “It can get old though, being a blunt instrument.” And then he realizes what he just said and pulls himself back together. “You new to Sioux Falls?” This time, the topic change is intentional. He sees Dean tense.

“Yes and no.” Dean’s eyes roam the room. “Was sort of raised here…and on the road. You know — the life…” He pulls the flirty smile back onto his face with effort, a mask Cas finds completely inscurtable and strangely familiar.

“Yea — the life…” Cas’ eyes are pinned to Dean’s again when he turns toward the door. He sees his own sadness there, only green instead of blue. The exhaustion of years of violence, of pain, of loss, of loneliness. And then, just like that, it’s gone.

Another student appears behind Dean, looking slightly confused. Dean gets out of the way, moving to a seat in the back of the class, even though every other chair is still open. More students filter in, filling the rest of the desks. 

Five minutes after the class was supposed to start, once the syllabi have been handed out, and Cas has found himself again at the front of the classroom, he tries to get himself focused. Back to the task at hand. Teaching the civilians’ stories. He can do that. So he does.

He talks about the growth of myths, the way stories travel, mutate, evolve. How they serve politicians and superstitions and gods, how they carry truths cloaked in metaphor. How they are a key form of true knowledge, because they tell us about who we are and what we care about as much as they tell us a plot. And at the end of each thought, as the rest of the class’ eyes glaze over further, Cas finds himself looking at Dean who is looking right back at him. 

When the bell rings, and the students file out, Dean stops for a moment in front of Cas, again with that enigmatic smile. “Thanks, teach.”   
  
Cas doesn’t know what to say.

[iv]

  
 _He’s beautiful_ , Dean thinks, without meaning to. As the professor waxes philosophical about lore, Dean lets himself stare. The blue eyes, the full, chapped lips, the serious intensity, it’s captivating. _He sounds like Sam, and hope, and the ocean. Shut up,_ Dean thinks to himself, but he doesn’t make himself look away. He just listens.  
  
As he stands to leave the class, he can’t help himself from stopping in front of Cas to smile, just for a moment. And then he remembers himself and shuts it down.   
  
It’s almost noon. If he runs home now, he can get a nap in before work.  
  
His hand slips into his jacket pocket pulling out the flask Bobby left him, he takes a swig as he opens the door of the school building and heads to Baby, parked just a few steps down the barren, South Dakota street.  
  
It’s funny, almost. How everyone thinks that Hunters U just sort of happened. He’s heard the stories on the road. “It’s just a place where hunters leave their shit,” “it’s in the middle of nowhere so no one takes it seriously but it’s got good stuff,” “check out this archive in the boondocks — it might help."  
  
But Dean knows the truth. Bobby died. _John let — no. Bobby died, that’s it_. And now his massive, impressive, essential library is here. And so are Dean and Sam. Sleeping in Singer Auto’s now empty house, drinking from his cabinet and pretending that this is enough.  
  
When he gets back to Bobby’s, he sits at the kitchen table, where a bottle of whiskey has a standing reservation and a flask funnel is laid out like dining service. He starts to fill the battered tin as Sam comes in.   
  
“Seriously?” Sam says, looking at him with the disgust and disappointment reserved only for naive 17 year olds who don’t how to do anything but judge. He likes that Sam is a regular 17 year old sometimes.  
  
“Fuck off, it’s been a long day”  
  
“It’s noon. You’ve been up for 3 hours. How could it possibly be a long day?” Dean doesn’t know how to answer, Sam doesn’t know how late he was up, and it’s better that way. So he watches as Sam lets his feelings slide from his face, and Dean, just for a second, sees the worry there. “How was class?”  
  
“Actually, great,” Dean says with a swig. Sam winces microscopically. “The teacher’s a hunter.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. Sam chuckles. “I might actually learn something helpful. Maybe even something that will kill the demon and then…” he trails off. _And then what? If we do kill Yellow Eyes, what happens? Is that it? Sam leaves? Dad disappears? I…_  
  
But Sam jumps in and stop his thoughts from veering off a cliff. “And then we’re free — we’ll go to beaches, put our toes in the sand, drink _cervezas_ with lime, meet cute girls.” Sam’s face lights up more and more with each word. Just mentioning the promise they made 5 years ago, to finally take a vacation, makes them both smile. Dean hopes he’s telling the truth. Then looks at his watch.  
  
“Dude — get out of here! You’re gonna be late!” Sam’s class starts at 12:30, Law 101 or something like that. _Something that will actually give him a way out, a way away from you,_ a mean, harsh voice whispers in Dean’s head. But he ignores it. Sammy deserves to get out.  
  
“Not if you let me take Baby…” Sam’s voice is full of attitude and insinuation, his eyebrows waggle just like Dean’s, who, as usual, can’t say no to his kid brother.  
  
“Yea, yea, yea, I need to nap anyway.” Sam smiles and catches the keys Dean throws his way.   
  
“Remember to eat something, ok? Your liver will thank me!” Sam says over his shoulder as he walks out of the room. Dean rolls his eyes, before making himself a sandwich in the now empty kitchen.   
  
He hates the empty. So he puts on music and sits on the couch and drinks and eats and tries failingly not to think of class. Of serious blue eyes, of a deep voice talking about lore with such interest, of the hint of doubt in Cas’ tone when he talked about hunting, of how his trench coat looked when he pulled it on at the end of class. Of how Dean’s stomach fluttered when he caught his eye or got him to smile, just for a second.  
  
He takes another swig and whips himself with the one rule. _It’s only gay if they don’t pay._ John’s voice fills his head - to slap himself back to his senses, to remind him what he has to lose.

[v]

“Took you long enough.” Uri is sitting in the front seat of the family’s unnecessarily large SUV. Michael is next to him. Gabe, lolling in the back with his feet up on the passenger head rest, taps at an irritated Michael's head.  
  
“Bite me,” Cas responds. But then Anna arrives. She grabs the spell book from his hands, dropping it into the tote filled with ingredients he pulled together this morning.   
  
“Let’s get going,” she says. Calm and bossy at the same time. She pushes Cas into the back seat, next to Gabe who attempts to tickle him before throwing his legs over Cas’ lap. Anna slides in next to them. And starts repeating the plan as she always does. As they were trained to do.  
  
“The nest is in Idaho. It’ll take about 4 hours to get there as long as Uri drives like he always drives.” Uri revs the engine and smiles wickedly. “When we get there, we’ll circle the house. On my signal, Cas will cast, locking the vamps in place for —"  
  
“Five minute,” he supplies.  
  
“And then we’ll run in, slice and dice, and head home. Easy peasy. Should even be able to get back to Souix Falls before the Roadhouse closes.”  
  
“Thank god for that,” Gabe says, before closing his eyes, dropping his head onto Cas’ shoulder and falling asleep immediately. This is a skill he has perfected, all the way down to the drool already slipping onto Cas’ coat.  
  
“How was your first day?” Michael asks flatly.   
  
“Fine,” Cas responds. He knows the question is perfunctory. They don’t talk. Not that they ever really had. But especially not now.  
  
“You have to tell us more than that,” Anna pesters, looking at him with genuine interest. And after a bit more probing, he finally answers in earnest.  
  
“It was good. I think. I mean the students didn’t really care. I rambled. But — it was surprisingly fun to act like none of it is real, just for a little while. That monsters were just stories. That the dark wasn’t scary. That salt was superstitious. That we were safe.”   
  
Michael’s head spins like an owl. He glares straight into Cas’ eyes for the first time in months.

  
“Monster are not stories. Monsters are real. We kill them. And when we don’t, people die.” His face is a storm of unforgiving and uncontrollable anger. “Do your fucking job.” He turns foward again, his eyes back on the road.   
  
The car is silent, tense. Too small for the five siblings, even with the back two seats empty. Of course, this is when Gabe wakes up with a jolt and wiggles closer to Cas.  
  
“Any cuties, though? Someone who might be hot for teacher?” His brown eyebrows wave across his face with frustrating lasciviousness. Cas blushes. “Ah ha! I knew you were too excited about something that is so obviously the most boring thing on Earth. What’s her name?”  
  
“Shut up.” Cas says, like Gabe is barely worth his time. But he his mind idiotically shifts for a second to green eyes, blue jeans, and a worn-in jacket.  
  
“Fine, be boring,” Gabe grumbles. “And Uri — since he’s being the buzz kill, how about you put some music on so this place doesn't feel like a fucking mausoleum.” Cas shoots a glare at Gabe at the same time as Michael does. But Uri obliges and the rest of the car ride is spent in semi-uncomfortable silence.   
  
Stuck between his snoring, idiot brother and Anna, with her face in a book, Cas leans his head back and stares through the sun roof above him. Before long, the memories creep in. Louder and brighter with each return visit.  
  
“ _This isn’t hunting, this is murder,” the pure blood werewolf mother says tearfully, weaponless, hopeless. Her words stop Cas in his tracks, cold.  
_  
 _She and her husband are cornered in their barn. Three children, with wheat colored hair and sweet, soft features hide behind them.  
_  
 _“We eat cow hearts from cattle we own and treat well. We sell the meat to cover our costs just like any other farmers. Our kids go to school and learn and grow. We’re not monsters, we’re fucking people. Hunters — you’re monsters. Murderers —"  
  
_ _And then she is silent — Michael’s silver blade through her heart. Cas remains motionless as Michael pulls the knife out, bends down and stabs each of the three kids without blinking. The suddenly widowed husband, childless father howls and jumps at Michael who easily throws him off.  
_  
 _At that moment, Hannah, with her soft brown hair and light blue eyes’, comes barreling in. And the wolf, stumbling away from Michael, latches on to her instantly. With astounding fury, he shoves his hand through her chest and pulls out her heart. It still beats for a moment. They all stand transfixed, the second lasting far too long. And then the wolf yanks. The veins break, Hannah falls, And Michael stabs the wolf in the back, staring at a still frozen Cas with unbridled hate.  
_  
“We’re here, sleepy head. So you can stop using me as a pillow.” Anna nudges him. Cas wakes with a start. The flashback still charges through his head. _Monster, murder_ _:_ a mantra on repeat. He can’t tell whose voice is saying it, the mother or his brother.  
  
But with a precision that terrifies him, Cas turns into the hunter he’s trained to be. When Michael orders them out of the car, Cas gets in postion. When Anna gives the signal, he casts. When Uri leads them to the house, he follows. When Gabe signals his targets, he chops off their teenage vampire heads. Their eyes, the only mobile part of them, are filled with terror but his hand stays steady. _Because I’m a monster, murderer just like you_ , he thinks as he watches their faces fall to the ground.  
  
Gabe lights the barn on fire with a woot. Uri claps his hand on Michael’s shoulder, congratulating him for his impressive moves. _Against completely immobilized foes,_ Cas can’t help but think. Anna runs to him before the thought spins out, hugging him tight.  
  
“Hunters U sure paid off! We haven’t had a hunt that easy or fun in forever! Now let’s get our drink on!” Cas feels sick.

[vi]

Dean sits at a table near the back window of the Roadhouse, watching the sun set absentmindedly. The whiskey in front of him rolls back and forth in his hand. After an afternoon of tracking cases, trying to sleep, and thinking far too much about medieval folklore, he just wants to see his kid brother and eat a fucking cheese burger.  
  
Sam arrives carrying a face of jubilation and a frankly ridiculous amount of books. Gigantic and lanky, he lopes to Dean’s table, taking a sip of the beer Dean had ordered for him.  
  
“It's warm,” his face winces. “And flat.”  
  
“Well, that’s what happens when you’re two hours late,” Dean says with a wry smile. “And hey — that might not be the only surprise inside.” He lift his eyebrows and winks, smile widening even further.  
  
“You fucking spit in it, didn’t you?” Sam looks genuinely disgusted. As though they haven’t used each others toothbrushes since they were born. “How old are you? Six.”  
  
“And a half,” says Dean.   
  
They laugh until Charlie comes over to take their order. Dean asks for two cheese burgers STAT while Sam demands his own pitcher of beer, that “must be kept far away from his complete dick of a brother.” At that, Charlie turns to Dean.  
  
“Oh, I don't think he’s that bad,” she says. “I’ve known him long enough to know, that at his core, he might have a decent heart — maybe.” They giggle together for a second before she turns back to work.  
  
“Anyway, how was class?” Dean asks.  
  
“Amazing!” Sam’s eyes light up again. “Everything was so interest and…normal! We talked about how to build an ethical society — how laws can help us make the world better — how to think like a lawyer. No monsters, no supernatural, just… people. It was awesome.”  
  
 _He looks so happy, so completely and utterly happy_ , Dean thinks. So as his heart breaks just a bit more, he listens and listens as his brother yearns for a life Dean doesn’t understand.  
  
When the food arrives, Dean pulls Charlie into the booth to share their fries and tell them about her day. They’ve known her for years, this pixie of a girl, who is far too smart to be stuck working at a shitty roadhouse. But, like him, her life is a list of cliches: family is family, the life is the life, and you do what you gotta to do.  
  
“So I’ve been working on an algorithm, to track certain kinds of crimes, the ones that tend to turn into hunts,” she explains to Sam as Dean finishes yet another whiskey.  
  
“Refill!” He says at exactly 10pm, pushing his chair back to get to the bar. “Any other takers?”  
  
“I think I’ve had enough.” Sam says, looking at the emptied pitcher to his left, burping for emphasis.  
  
“Strictly speaking, I’m still on shift” Charlie adds, lifting her full glass of bourbon to her lips with a smile. “So for the moment, I’m good” Dean laughs, and Charlie yells after him as he turns -- “love to watch you leave.” She and Sam share a snort.  
  
At the bar, he walks to Gordon, the tall, strong Black bartender with a goatee and hard brown eyes.  
  
“The usual,” Dean says. Gordon turns and pulls down the whiskey. He bends to grab a new glass and returns with 2 poppers and a small vial that he palms nonchalantly into Dean’s hand. He also gives Dean a hefty pour and a patronizing smile. Dean wants to punch him in the face. But instead, he heads to the bathroom.  
  
Snorting takes a second and he swallow the poppers with a large gulp of whiskey. Now all he needs is for Sam to leave and he’ll rake in at least 500 bucks tonight. He's scoped the scene and at least 15 truckers are here already, plus he's up $100. Sammy was late after all, so he pulled an early bird trick.  
If all goes well, he can even tip Charlie — he owes her that much at least. She is the only person in his life who knows what he does and doesn’t hate him for it. She even helps him keep it from Sammy. He smiles again as he pulls the door to the bathroom open to find himself face to face with a blue eyed hunter in a trench coat covered in blood, and looking utterly undone. 

  
[vii]

  
“Teach?”

The words shock Cas back into the moment. He’s in the bathroom of the Roadhouse. Finally. After two excessively stressful car rides and a round of cold-blooded murder.  
  
“Dean?” Cas feels exhausted, he’s not prepared for bright green eyes taking him in.  
  
“Are you ok? Did the vamp thing not go good?” Dean’s concern makes Cas feel even more sick. _Go good? What does that even mean? Did I kill a bunch of people? Of course. Did I do good? Of course not._  
  
“I’m fine. Really. Go back to your table. I just need to wash up,” Cas says, closing his face and staring into Dean’s eyes as intimidatingly as he can.   
  
Dean’s eyes go wide, or they are already wide. Cas stares at him for a moment longer, actually looking at him. His eyes squint and his head tilts. He sees bouncing fingers, relaxed hips. He sees the shirt under Dean’s jacket, a black, tight v-neck, and a long necklace. The conclusion arrives in only a second. He can recognize the signs, even before he sees the condoms sticking out of Dean’s pocket. _Turning tricks — of course. As Dean said, it's the life. And it’s always the pretty ones. Like him, like me._  
  
Instead of saying anything though, he walks around Dean and heads to the sink. Dean hovers in the doorway for a moment. Like he wants to say something. Cas wants to say something too, like: _I learned the hard way that_ _mixing coke, poppers and alcohol might not be the best idea, no matter what Gordon recommends to pull in his 10%._ But instead he just feels disgust though who that disgust is aimed at is anybody’s guess.  
  
“I liked your class.” Dean says softly. It wasn't what he was expecting. Cas sees a real smile, sweet and honeyed, reflected in the mirror. Still as a statue, Cas meets those eyes and then in an equally quiet voice finds himself saying, “Thanks. I liked it too.”  
  
He turns to the exbausting job of trying to get the blood off his hands, _as if._ And when he looks back up a few moments later, Dean is gone. And when he returns to his sibling’s table, everyone has shots in front of them, along with several already tipped glasses.  
  
“And we couldn’t have had the easiest vamp hunt of our lives without our great and wonderful Castiel who cast the spell.” Anna smiles so big at her own pun that even Michael laughs. They clink classes and shoot back the shots. Cas settles in next to Anna and pours himself another shot from the bottle one of his siblings had decided to buy. _Bottle service, fancy. I guess we're celebrating...of course, we're supposed to be celebrating._  
  
Before long the conversation is back where it was when he left, where it was in the car, where it is after every hunt. "Who ran fastest?" "Who came up with the best part of the plan?" "Who saved the day?" "Who had the best kill?" "Who had the worst?" "Who killed the most?" "Who killed the least?" "Who doesn’t love killing monsters?"  
  
Castiel nods along, bragging about his spell work, his steady hands, his general fantasticalness when he’s supposed to. _I should act more like I care,_ he thinks. _Work harder to make them believe I'm is still “in it to win it” as Michael loves to say_ , for reasons surpassing Cas’ understanding. _But mostly, I just want to go home and forget all of it for as long as physically possible._  
  
Dean walks in through the back door and catches Cas’ eye. He looks keyed up and alert. Almost prepared for hunting. Which is sort of what he's doing. He has a bulge in his back pocket that wasn’t there before. _Wow — that’s an impressively quick trick, even for someone that pretty_ , Cas can’t help but think. Professional courtesy and all.  
  
Dean is walking slowly the bar, letting people take him in, especially those with the look Cas has gotten excellent at noticing. He’s showing off the merchandise. Cas would know.  
  
“Where the hell have you even been? Stop trying to get laid and sit back down,” a floppy haired, tipsy, incredibly tall kid yells from a table near the back window. One of the waitresses — Charlotte maybe? — is sitting next to him grabbing bites of food off the table’s almost empty plates.   
  
“Who says I need to try?” He hears Dean yell back. And Sam’s flips him off. Cas’ smirks. _It’s a good line. I should use it sometime._ Even more heads in the bar turn to appraise Dean.   
  
“Whose that?” Gabe intrudes.  
  
“Who?” Cas asks, trying to act nonchalant.  
  
“The smokeshow you can't take your eyes off of,” Gabe says, exacerbated. “Charlene? Charmaine? Charzard? Whatever — the waitress chick hanging with the Winchester boys?”  
  
“The Winchester boys?” Cas turns to Gabe, actually interested in what he has to say for once. “You know those guys?”  
  
“Of course I do. They’re John Winchester’s kids. The guy who’s trying to kill a demon? The one crazy enough to think that’s even sort of possible?” Cas shakes his head. “Wow you are completely out of the Hunter loop, bro. Whatever. The older one,” Gabe points to Dean “he’s a killing machine — one of the most ruthless young hunters out there, according to Pastor Jim’s crew. And that gangly kid — his younger brother — good with lore, good with computers, just kinda all around good, in an infuriatingly boring way from what Jo says.” Gabe smiles like he’s a teenager and Cas rolls his eyes. “Your face will get stuck that way if you keep doing that,” Gabe says before returning to the conversation and leaving Cas with his thoughts.   
  
Just a few minutes later, Cas watches as Dean grabs Sam’s coat and starts to usher him home. The boy protests half heartedly. Carmen (?) helps — pulling Sam to the door, Dean in tow. And suddenly, without even slightly understanding why, Cas stands up and follows.

  
[viii]

“I can get into a car myself,” Sam shouts as he tries and fails to open the bright orange door.   
  
“Clearly,” Dean retorts, sneaking his hand around Sam to pull the handle. Then, he uses his other hand on his brother’s shoulder to push the giant into the passenger's seat of Charlie’s tiny Prius. “You can get him home alright?” He looks over the hood.  
  
“No, I’ve never done this before, I have no idea where y'all even live,” Charlie deadpans, before cracking a smile that Dean returns. “You gonna be good here?” She says quietly. “Looks like a rough crowd.” Dean checks that Sam is distracted by the radio before answering.  
  
“Yea, I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s part of your appeal,” Charlie jokes and Dean can’t help but laugh. She always knows how to make him do that. No matter how much shame stalks him, she can pause its advance every time.  
  
“You are not wrong,” Dean parries, seeing himself through her eyes just for a moment. _Another hunter kid with shit opinions and nothing to feel guilty about. If only._  
  
“Stop chitchatting and take me home,” Sam shouts, sticking his head out the window. And Charlie drops into the seat next to him.  
  
“But how can I leave someone so beautiful?” He hears Charlie tease and Sam pretends to barf.  
  
“Drive safe,” Dean hits the top of car and smiles at them as they drive away. Then, he turns to head behind the building, toward the cabs parked out back. Standing a few feet away, he sees Cas, Castiel, Professor What’s His Name, looking at him with the same head tilted intensity from the bathroom. But this time, instead of surprise and calm, Dean just feels annoyed and disappointed. He didn’t think Cas would be like them. He wasn't ready for his crush — _no, your teacher_ — to follow him back to his car like a regular old john. But before any hard feelings set in, he turns on the charm.  
  
“'Sup, hot stuff?” Dean says, pulling off his jacket sas soon as he hears Charlie’s honk from the interstate - their signal that Sam is a safe distance away.  
  
“Hot stuff?” Cas asks, looking genuinely, adorably confused. Dean wants to smile. “I’m your teacher.”  
  
“You’re a teacher, like I’m a student,” Dean almost purrs. The coke lends him courage. “And don't act like you followed me to this parking lot to talk lore.” He saunters toward Cas, the performance of his steps feeling hollow but familiar. In response, Cas’ face falls and Dean stops. Suddenly, completely confused.  
  
“No, I did not,” says Cas, seriously. “I came to keep you company as you wait for your next client.”  
  
Dean’s body goes rigid. Sweat bubbles on every inch of his skin. He tries not to hyperventilate.   
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean says. Pulling his hunter's face back on with ease: his mouth a line, his eyes hooded, his shoulder back.  
  
“Ok.” Cas responds, but he doesn’t turn, or take his blue eyes off Dean’s green’s ones. And then he offers Dean a door, if he wants it: “I have always found it easier to pull a trick when I have some company. Makes me look desired and so desirable. But I can go back.” Cas flips up his hands up, turning his feet back toward the door.  
  
“No.” Dean leaps in, surprising himself as much as Cas with his volume. Dean steps forward, his hand going to the back of his neck. “I mean, uh, does that really help?”   
  
_What the fuck am I doing?_ Dean can already feel the regret coiling in his stomach. _I don't talk to people about this stuff. Ever. Well, other than Charlie. And that was only because she caught me on my knees behind the dumpster once and I had to convince her I wasn’t a fag.  
_  
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Cas responds quietly, his hands falling together to fidget uncomfortably. “I just hate waiting to get picked up alone. It’s scarier than hunting sometimes.” Dean feel remarkably close to Cas, but he pushes that down before responding.   
  
“Yea, I know what you mean. Especially when the guys look like they’re not particularly interested in how you feel about the whole endeavor.” He and Cas fall into step, heading around to the back of the Roadhouse.  
  
“True,” Cas’ smile is small and sad. “Also when they’re holding something particularly heavy.”  
  
“Or wearing something particularly ugly,” Dean jokes.  
  
“Or just smelling from feet away.” They’re both laughing now, as they lean against the back of the restaurant, visible to the drivers milling around the trucks. Dean’s bends his right knee, leaning his foot against the wall: the universal sign, he’s ’open for business.’ Cas joins him.  
  
“You trying to steal my clients?” Dean teases.  
“Matter of habit,” Cas drops his foot. And the silence that falls is not nearly as awkward as Dean was expecting.  
  
“So a teacher-hunter-whore? That’s quite a hyphenate you got there, Blue Eyes.” Dean can't help but say. He had let the silence linger too long. He's starting to notice exactly how close Cas is, their arms are almost touching. Dean wants to not want to touch him.  
  
“Says the student-hunter-whore,” Cas tosses back and Dean snorts.  
  
“Well, then we’re in good company,” Dean winks and Cas blushes, making Dean blush too, just for a moment. “So which title is your favorite?” He tries to lighten the moment. Expecting a jokey answer, like Charlie would give. Like Whore-y-teller or whor-unter. Instead, he watches as Cas’ face fills with a grief so heavy Dean almost staggers from its weight.  
  
“I hate them all,” Cas whispers. His eyes stick to the yellow curb in front of them. “Everything that has to do with this life, the life, I hate it.” Dean doesn’t know what to say. No one he knows talks like this. They don’t talk at all. Not really. “I’m good at it,” Cas continues darkly. “Oh believe me, I am good at it all, the killing and the fucking and the lying. But god, I hate it.”

[ix]

“Why?” Dean asks. Cas can feel those green eyes boring into the side of his head. But he doesn't want to answer. _Why did you even say that? No one cares about your little sob story._ A blush rises as he feels tears prickle in his eyes, so he keeps his head down. The silence lingers for a beat, a few more. Then he feels Dean shove him lightly with his shoulder.  
  
"It's ok, you're allowed to hate whatever you want to hate. I won't tell,” Dean says quietly. “Anyway, you’re not alone: I too am amazing at hunting and at fucking.” He gives Cas the biggest, fakest, funniest smile, and Cas guffaws despite himself.  
  
“Are you now?” Cas flirts unintentionally, feeling the blush darken.  
  
“Hell yes, I’m awesome. Never got a bad performance review, from a john or a monster. Well, the monsters are usually pretty dead and the johns don’t usually want to talk. But still. They would give me a good review if they could.” Dean runs his hands through his hair and Cas finds himself staring.   
  
“I’m sure they would. At least from what I’ve heard.”  
  
“You’ve heard of me?” Dean’s the one staring now -- catching and holding Cas’ gaze with a mix of pride and caution.  
  
“Not so much me as my brother. And not so much you as your dad. Gabe, the little one, with wavy hair and the worst sense of humor in history, says he’s trying to kill a demon.” Dean’s face, just moments ago so light, is hard again, sad and cold.   
  
“Ah, yes, the great Mr. Winchester,” Dean almost hisses, releasing Cas’ gaze to look back at the busy parking lot. “A real gem, that guy. He has it all: reasonable goals, an excellent disposition and, boy, does he love his kids.” The steel in Dean’s voice makes Cas nervous, even though none of the words are pitched in his direction. “God, talk about someone worth hating.”  
  
Dean pulls a flask out of the pocket of his jeans and he takes a generous swig. He passes it to Cas without a thought. Lifting it up to his lips, Cas can already smell the too strong, dirt cheap whiskey. _This is going to be unpleasant._ But he takes a sip anyway, choking almost immediately.  
  
“You know that shit is going to make you go blind?” Cas says between coughs.  
  
“I thought that was mastrubation,” Dean laughs, as he pats Cas’ back. His hands are big and warm, Cas doesn't want him to stop. “Plus it gets the job done. Who needs more than that?”  
  
“Anyone with taste buds?” Dean laughs again and Cas joins.  
  
But because he's an idiot, because he can't help but stick his head where it doesn't belong, because just for a moment he didn't feel like the only miserable, lost human in the whole world, he finds himself saying: “I’m sorry about your dad.” Dean’s face is hard as stone by the time Cas finds his eyes again.   
  
“Me too.” The joyless answer makes Cas want to hug him. But he doesn’t. Instead, words bubble up.  
  
“Mine's a piece of shit too, if that helps. Well, he’s my foster dad actually, but the point stands. Though, we’re lucky in a way: none of us have seen him in years. We all just keep doing what he taught us, though. Like little perfect fucking soldiers.” He can’t keep the hate from his voice.  
  
“That’s what my dad calls me,” Dean’s voice is quieter than Cas has ever heard it. “His soldier in the battle to avenge my mom. He even makes me call him ‘sir.’ The first time I--” Dean gestures to the parking lot, the men staring, the trucks idling “he made me say 'thank you sir’ after. Like he did me a fucking favor by losing all our cash in a poker game and leaving us with only my 12 year old ass to cover meals for the week.”  
  
“12 huh?” Cas says, but before Dean can think this is pity, he adds, “I was 11, so I guess I win.” His voice drips with the same malice as Dean’s. “I was the pretty one, and we had to ‘protect the girls.’” Cas’ air quotes make Dean snort coldly.   
  
“Well, at least you protected them,” Dean says. Cas’ heart stops. _One of them maybe_ , but Hannah’s blue, blue eyes still stare up at him from the barn floor. He feels light headed until he remembers to listen to Dean. “At least I protected Sammy. He will never know I do this. He will never have to do this. He will never be like me: some broken, used up thing. He’s going to go to college, and get out and be free. If it’s the last thing I do.” Cas can hear the pressure in Dean’s voice with each word. It’s his turn to push his shoulder into Dean, to pass him a smile.  
  
“You’re doing a great job, from what I can see. Even hunters know your brother’s a good one.” At Dean’s raised eyebrow, Cas adds, “Gabe knows Jo.” And Dean, whose face was just seconds before pulled down by years of sadness, rebounds into a loud laugh.   
  
“Poor Jo. If anyone is going to steal Sam’s v-card, it’s that girl. She’s been trying for at least two years now.” He chuckles and then adds quietly. “I’m just happy he still has one, ya know?” He catches Cas’ eye with such intensity, Cas stops breathing and only nods. “I think I get what you mean now, about hating it. I mean, I don't exactly — but if I could steal Sammy away, give him an apple pie life.” Dean's eyes grow wistful but don’t look away. “With a living mom and a non-shit dad. With football practice and feeling up cheerleaders behind the bleachers. Without monsters and machetes, I would trade my soul right here and now. He deserves it.”  
  
“We all do,” Cas responds. His voice equally soft, their eyes still caught up in each other. “No one deserve to become a murderer, a monster just because their parent has some crazy vendetta or some disgusting savior complex. No one deserves to watch their sister, or mother, die just because we're stupid enough to believe that we're the good guys. No one deserves any of this.” Dean doesn’t push for more information and, in his mind, Cas thanks him for it. Dean just nods knowingly. Their arms are touching now, their eyes locked, but they don't move. Cas’ steals a look at Dean’s lips unintentionally. They’re almost a perfect heart. When he lifts his eyes back to Dean’s, he finds his feelings mirrored: confusion, passion, loneliness, solace.   
  
And then:  
  
“You, in the black with the green eyes, how much for the hour?” Dean is back in his costume before Cas can blink. The blank sexiness rises in his eyes. His hips thrust out. He bites his lip seductively and lets his shoulder lean to the side. The consummate playboy.  
  
“Depends what you want, hot stuff.” Dean’s gravelly voice is drips with sex as he saunters over to the round, grey, mean-looking man, like he walked toward Cas just twenty minutes before. Watching Dean turn to trick makes Cas want to vomit. But he just watches. As Dean makes a deal and lets the man slap his ass. As they turn together toward the cab the man points to.  
  
“See you later, Teach.” Dean says over his shoulder. And Cas feels suddenly incredibly alone.

  
[x]

The house is quiet when Dean gets home. Charlie is asleep on the couch for the fourth time this week. _Fuck._ He didn’t want to talk to anyone tonight. He didn't really want to think about tonight ever again. Except maybe the first part. The Cas part. But Dean shuts that down before he lets the thoughts go too far. _It’s only gay if they don't pay…maybe Cas would pay? Shut up._  
  
“Dean? Is that you?”  
  
“If it weren’t, would asking help?”  
  
“Haha, little big man,” Charlie says as she wanders into the kitchen. She’s wearing one of his old t-shirts, which hikes up to her knees as she stretches her hands over her head with a yawn.  
  
“I think we both know who is ‘little’ in this equation,” Dean smirks. “That shirt looks like it ate you.”  
  
“Lucky shirt,” Charlie says with a wink. “And don't worry — the only person allowed to eat me is Princess Lea but only if she's…”  
  
“In the bikini.” they say in unison and laugh at teh joke they've been making since they were four. Dean fishes in his pockets and pulls out the wadded bills. She sits down next to him, helping him count.  
  
“$350? Holy shit, Dean. What did you do? A basketball team?”  
  
“Something like that,” he winks. But they both know he’s lying. There’s only one way to make that much money in one night at a backwater Roadhouse and Charlie hates it when he barebacks.  
  
“That’s how you get sick, you know,” she says to the table, “and die.”  
  
“I’m not gonna die, silly. I get tested every week. And I’m on PReP. The worst case scenario here is some very treatable ickiness. Plus they’re not going to let Sammy stay in school if I don’t come up with tuition money in the next two weeks. So shut it.” He can tell she wants to argue, but his tired eyes must be enough to stop her.  
  
“So where exactly are you gonna tell Sam you got this money anyway?”  
  
“I’m thinking that I found another shockingly expensive, thriftable item? With a small side of pool hustling? Or I could just stick with the tried and true - theft.”  
  
“You make no sense,” Charlie mumbles, sleepily. “If you’re gonna tell Sam you’re stealing, why not just tell him what you’re actually doing? They're not that different.”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Deans voice is cold. He watches Charlie’s face fall but he doesn’t budge. “Sam can't know. Ever.”  
  
"What are you so afraid of? That he’ll judge you? Cuz that’s insane. He’s fucking Sam. He would jump off a bridge for you.”  
  
“That's what I’m afraid of,” Dean’s voice pitches low. “If he knows what I do, he’ll want to help or worse he’ll try to fix it. And neither of those qualify as options. Do you understand me?” He can hear his dad in his voice. See him in the fear that shoots across Charlie’s face. But he doesn’t back down. He doesn’t have many lines. Three strangers just stuck their condom-less dicks up his ass. But keeping Sammy out of this part of his life is an unbreakable wall.  
  
“Ok, ok.” Charlie promises. “Sam will never know.” Dean lets his shoulders drop and nods.  
  
“Good. Now —“ Dean separates $50 from his pile “for you.”  
  
“Dean, I don’t -"  
  
“Don’t pretend you don't need it. We both know you’re not sleeping here for the comfy couch. Go get your heat turned back on.” She gives him a teary smile.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I know.” He smiles back. “Now get back to bed! It’s 3 in the morning, young lady.”  
  
“But I wanna know how tonight went!”  
  
“No, no, no. This is not story time with Deano the HoHo. Go to sleep and maybe I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.” She laughs but stands and dashes back to the warm couch room as Dean pockets the rest of the cash and goes upstairs. He’s half asleep when he opens his door and already down for the count the second he hits the bed.  
  
 _“What the fuck is this?” John’s bellow echoes in Dean's still throbbing head. He slowly opens his eyes. He’s in the Impala, somehow. Also he’s not wearing a shirt or pants, somehow. And his legs are wrapped around something, no someone. Oh fuck. The realization washes over him in agonizing slowness as he lifts his head to see his father’s shotgun pointing at him through the window.  
_  
 _Yesterday had been the end of a good hunt. John had gotten trashed and passed out early enough that Dean had some time to go have fun for once. He invited Sammy, who of course declined, leaving 16 year old Dean to pull out one of his fake ID’s and wander into the first bar he could find._  
  
 _And there was Ryan. He was nice, funny, and handsome in a way that made Dean's mouth dry. He bought Dean a drink and asked him what he did for a living. When Dean lied and said he was a student, the boy with the dark brown eyes and soft brown skin had believed him. “Me too!” He’d exclaimed before filling Dean in on his classes and his friends. He asked Dean questions too. Like where he was from, and what he wanted to major in and how he’d managed to get so buff. The last one made Dean blush. "You’re one to talk," he’d said. He couldn't take his eyes off Ryan’s arms, covered in tattoos and sculpted into lean, long muscles. They kept drinking, and talking, and bumping shoulders, knees, arms, hands. Until Ryan decided it was time for a smoke.  
_  
 _As Dean turned the corner, reaching to pull his lighter out of his pocket, Ryan had wrapped his hand behind Dean’s neck and pushed him against the alley wall. He kissed him like Robin had, soft and open, like Dean was special, like he was worth kissing carefully. Dean let himself enjoy the slowness of it, arching into Ryan and moaning quietly, coming back hungrier and harder each time they pulled away for air. They had stumbled against the wall, groping and grinding until Dean remembered that he had parked the Impala down the street. Grabbing Ryans arm, he pulled him to the car, Dean pushing him into the back seat before laying himself on top. When he finally got Ryan’s shirt off, he found even more tattoos covering his shoulders, his pecks, his ribs. Dean kissed each one sloppily, moving down until he was slowly unzipping Ryan’s jeans without breaking eye contact. Maybe whoring had a plus side — he knew how to look sexy doing this.  
  
But before Dean could get to work, Ryan had flipped them over and done the same to Dean. Pulling his clothes off, kissing his neck, chest, stomach, taking aching minutes to get his pants to the floor. It was amazing, to be with a man for real. Not for cash. To be with someone who sucked his dick like it was a birthday present, not someone who just wanted a quick fuck before getting back on the road. When Ryan asked him to fuck him, Dean was almost too shocked to move. He’d never topped, no one wanted to pay a pretty young thing for that. But, he found himself saying yes with such enthusiasm Ryan had laughed out loud. And when he was finally inside him, he did to Ryan what he always wished those creepy, old men would do to him. Stroked him as they fucked, made him feel as good as Dean did. And when Ryan came looking straight into Dean's eyes, yelling Dean’s real name, Dean had come undone along with him.  
  
The rest of the night was spent in varying versions of the same position, until they had, apparently, fallen asleep. Inside his militant father’s car. Wrapped around each other. Like two fucking idiots.  
_  
 _“Fuck,” Dean yells. Ryan is waking up too slowly until he sees the white man with the shot gun and starts moving almost as fast as Dean. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Dean has his shirt and pants on in seconds, Ryan too.  
_  
 _“Get out of my fucking car, you fucking faggot,” John roars, his eyes on Ryan but his gun on Dean. Ryan shoves the opposite door open and runs. He left one shoe and his wallet behind, Dean stares at them. It had been so perfect until —  
_  
 _“Clean this shit up, I’ll be inside.” John snipes. Then walks into the bar, never lowering his gun. When he finally comes back, to a car so clean Dean is sure he can see his reflection in the back seat’s leather, John refuses to look at him.  
_  
 _“Where's the money?” John says, pulling the car into traffic.  
_  
 _“It wasn’t a—“ John elbows him hard in the side before he can finish his sentence. He wants to double over but he won’t let himself.  
_  
 _“I said, where’s my money, Dean?” John’s tone doesn’t change, his eyes stay trained on the road. But his menace grows. “Because if he didn’t pay you, that makes you a faggot. And my son will not be a faggot. Do you understand me?”_  
 _  
Dean nods.  
_  
 _“I said — do you understand me?”_  
 _  
“Yes, sir.”_  
 _  
“Now where's the money?”_  
 _  
Dean reaches back and grabs Ryan’s wallet from under the seat where he kicked it. He had wanted to keep it. Yes, this morning was atrocious, but last night was weirdly wonderful, safe and fun and free, just for a moment. He pulls out the few bills he finds and hands them to John.  
_  
 _“$63 for a whole night with a professional. I don’t think so.” John says cruelly and Dean finally gets it.  
  
He reaches into his own wallet and pulls out the money he had been saving. John gives him $20 for each night of work, and he had finally almost saved enough to buy Sammy a computer. Not a nice one, but one to get Sam started. So he could sign up for the SATs and apply to college or whatever. A computer like normal kids have. Sammy deserved that. So Dean had been working, and saving for months. And just like that, it’s all in John’s hands. It’ll be gone in a week, Dean knows, disappeared into drinks and gambling, strippers and blow. Before John turns the music on so loud that Dean’s headache gets a headache, he looks at his son with eyes full of hate: “It’s only gay if they don’t pay.”_  
  
Dean wakes up with a start. He hasn't had that nightmare in years. For months after Ryan, Dean could dream of nothing else. But the more time passed, the easier it was for him to think of fucking dudes as work and fucking chicks as real. The more time passed, the easier it was to pretend that he didn’t care. The more time passed, the easier it was for it not to matter. But now, even as his father’s mantra echoes resoundingly in his head, all Dean can think about are bright blue eyes and feeling, for the first time in years, like he isn’t completely alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for getting all the way here!! Again, this is the first time I've ever written any fic so please let me know if it's good at all. I think it's not terrible. I hope it's not terrible.


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